I, Jaune
by Hallucinia
Summary: Jaune was never meant to be a hero, and no one would ever remember him as such. Yet throughout the wars of the Hemoclysm, the deeds of a nameless man would have massive repercussions. The man who would go down in history simply as "the fool" may have, in fact, played the most important role of all. This is his story-the story of me. I, Jaune.
1. Introduction

The idea for _I, Jaune_ came to me spontaneously one night while I was reading Kartofel von Kouch's _Jaune Arc: Hero of Vytal_ series. Recently, I had just finished listening to a section on the Emperor Claudius on Mike Duncan's absolutely fabulous podcast _The History of Rome_ (I'm serious: check it out, you won't regret it). I was struck by just how _ridiculous_ that entire segment of history had been (A gibbering moron being proclaimed Emperor of the Roman Empire, because everyone thought he would be easy to control? Who was reputed to be so stupid, that his own mother regularly brought him out to jest for the public? Who was thought by everyone to be so harmless, that he survived not one, not two, but three purges by three successive Emperors, including the infamous Caligula? Who then, through his later actions, proves he _isn't_ quite so stupid after all by 1) conquering an island that had defeated the great Julius Caesar, 2) surviving three hundred assassination attempts, 3) expanding the Empire to its greatest extent until Trajan (renowned as one of Rome's best Emperor's, if not _the_ best) and much, much more.

It really makes people wonder whether or not he was simply faking stupidity the whole time—which is of course the plot for Robert Grave's masterpiece _I, Claudius_.

So, instead of taking a leaf from the Ciaphas Cain series or _Jaune Arc: Hero of Vytal_ and presenting Jaune as a scheming, selfish villain bewilderingly promoted to the highest of honors for his acts of supreme self-preservation, I'm here to present the exact opposite premise: the campaigns against the Grimm have ended. Humanity has entered a golden age, and everyone knows the supreme architects of it all is the famous Team RWBY, who have risked life and limb to bring about mankind's zenith.

Except, well, that isn't quite true. Nobody has heard of Jaune Arc, and even those who _have_, only know him as one of Team RWBY's most loyal supporters, even during their period of disgrace.

And well, that isn't all.

In a world where might meant right and sheer force of personality counted as a weapon, Jaune Arc had neither much physical strength nor the ability to hold a sustained conversation without stammering and making a fool of himself. In a world where the pedigree of blood determined how high one could climb and connections where paramount, Jaune Arc had been virtually disowned and left to die.

Yet, even the most wretched of fools can become the greatest of heroes. Patience can defeat boldness, and hard, honest work can overcome raw talent. Even if he was never to reach the heights of fame as did his contemporaries, in time, even the mute will speak clearly.

And so far from being a fraudulent hero or worthless nothing, the man who would pass from history unnoticed was in fact mankind's greatest champion.

This is his story.

(And please, if you enjoy it, at least leave a short review, even if to simply say, "great story, continue." Too many authors on fanfiction simply whither away because people who would be voracious fans simply view reading as a spectator sport, leaving the author to wallow in a pit of seeming apathy—and let me tell you from experience, nothing kills creativity more than apathy. So please, if you enjoyed _I, Jaune_, even a little, please review! You don't even need to follow or favorite.)


	2. I, Jaune

History is an interesting thing. Sometimes, the greatest heroes of an age may be forgotten through a quirk of fate, while common, everyday gossip on who so-and-so married, who cheated on whom-and-whom and et cetera can be preserved through the vast stretches of time. Indeed, in the years since, I wonder at what generations after will think of our terrible and bloodied age.

That is not to say, of course, that I crave recognition or fame or power. A simple life is quite good enough for me. And indeed, while I played my part in this grand drama, I am but one piece of a vast puzzle and to toot my own horn beyond what I deserve would be ungrateful. Indeed, my fine friends Ruby, Weiss, Blake and Yang all deserve their place in history, for they have paid for it in blood, sweat and toil.

But beyond legend, truth needs to be told. Legends have a way of exalting the righteous and inspiring future generations with their epic style, but mere enthusiasm, I fear, will not be enough. Hundreds or even thousands of years from now, the events of the past may once again repeat itself and selfishness and idiocy will abound while endlessly, the membranous madness of the Outer Black continue to rise. In those dark times, mere inflated prose will not be enough. Our descendants will need to know our tactics, motivations, setbacks and more if they are to once again rise to meet the challenge of civilization and contest the evil that surrounds us all.

This will be that record. I do not plan nor wish for it to be read today, nor tomorrow, nor a decade nor even a century from now. We have earned our peace—let us keep it.

But peace will not last. A world long at peace will be soon at war; a world long at war will be soon at peace. This is the way things have always been, and shall always be.

So, let there be peace. But one day, when the dark returns, and the brightest lights fail to burn, heed my words and find your courage and honor.

This is my story.

The story of me: _I, Jaune._

…

For this narrative, I have decided to incorporate a nifty new piece of technology by the recently revitalized Schnee Dust Company, RTD. Mnemonsynthe Crystal, Weiss tells me, is an "all-new ultra-convenient Cognitive Imperishablely Rewritable Journal, or CIRJ (pronounced Seer-he) for short." I have her complete assurances that I will be able to transfer my thoughts and emotions directly into these crystals to keep them as a record for all posterity—and so, because I have quite a discount (seventy percent off!) I have decided that, in an effort to not bore any future readers with my dry and pedantic prose, to simply incorporate all my knowledge into these crystals to directly allow you, dear reader, to see and understand my life through my eyes (and the eyes of a few others, if they consent).

Still, what was once common knowledge may not be so in your day, so scattered throughout the entire work is a copious amount of footnotes describing, summarizing and clarifying bit and pieces of information that may not be quite so clear to an unknowing outsider. It is my wish they will be of much assistance but if our life and times are exceptionally well recorded, do feel free to disregard them.

All of the annotations are my own work, though I have asked some of my closest associates to donate a memory or two to round out the narrative. All errors fall squarely on my shoulders.

Additionally, I shall be marking my memoirs appropriately. For footnotes, (which you can safely skip over, if you wish, as most will have no direct impact on my tale whatsoever) I will marking FN (as in, the format will be FN: _Subject_). Again, they can be read in any order at any time or even skipped without detracting from my autobiography. As for my actual memoirs, I have marked each of them accordingly, so you will be able to easily identify who and where the memory in question took place (MC: _Person, Subject_). Usually, I will not mark the dates of each memory as they generally take place in chronological order, though for the most momentous events or events that occur in close succession, I shall endeavor to put a timestamp to them so you will be able to easily file them into a general timeline.

The first part of my tale shall begin with a footnote explaining the land we live in. You can skip over this and proceed directly to the first memory crystal if you so wish.


	3. FN: The World of Remnant, Part 1

First, before we start, allow me to introduce the world we live in, quite appropriately named _Remnant_, for reasons that will soon be apparent. I will begin first with the particulars and slowly grow broader and more inclusive, as like most things, the general tends to remain the same throughout time while individual details may shift quite a bit. First, a bit of geography.

A vast majority (though not all) of my memoirs will take place within the borders of the _Devas Vytal_. Devas Vytal, of course, is High Istafarellian for "Divine Glory," from the apocryphal legend that, when the first Imperator of the Vytalian Imperium looked upon the map of Remnant, he pointed to the unfilled portions and said "glory", which, of course, is vytal. So, the third-largest continent in Remnant came to be named Vytal. Still, despite the lofty name of Imperium, a vast swathe of land within Devas Vytal remains unexplored. This, coupled with the recent Ley rifts, underground expansions, and, of course, the Faunus Spirit Wilds have all further compounded cartographic attempts to map Vytal. Only now are we really making much progress on that front.

The days have long since past those heady heights however, and I lived in a much reduced confederation of free Imperial cities within the borders of Devas Vytal which was known in my own time as the Valyrian League, centered around the industrial capital of the city-state of Vale. The League, though preeminent, was really one of many. For one, it had royal (and thus divine) authority through a Warrant of Acquisition, but since the Emperor had long since degenerated into a figurehead, not much attention was really paid to this, although it did lend an air of legitimacy whenever Vale and its allies attempted to bankrupt their enemies. Still, the Valyrian League and other such alliances paid at least nominal adherence to the policies of the Aether, for despite everything, the High Lords still remained the dominant power in the land, even with the industrial might of Vale (coupled by the recent annexation of the Faunus lands with all that resultant weirdness and the Schnee Dust Company's discovery of Dust).

I must make a brief digression from all this, however, and mention something that you undoubtedly already know. By this time, the first signs of the Darkness had already made its appearance, though nowhere as great as its later, devastating ascent. In it's first phase, it resulted in small, easily contained incursions, nothing as bad as the Great Schism that had toppled the Imperial Bureaucracy centuries ago—in fact, in the beginning, the Darkness was so subtle that mankind as a whole did not even deem them a threat. However, these creatures known as the _Grimm_, I suspect, have made their appearances previously in the long history of Remnant. From the few holos and 'cords I have been able to extract from Desmenera, it seems our world has always been under fell influence—and thus, finishing my general overview of Vytal, this of course brings me into my favorite passion, history (or more accurately in this case, paleohistory).

Remnant has not always seen humanity ascendant. Scientists have been able to determine at the very least, three super-civilizations before our own. Our ancestors knew of their leftover artefacts simply as Desmenera, split generally into three kinds, Animera, Sessenera, and Relicera (or simply relics). Of the three, the last one is the most common and its shortened form has even entered everyday usage as _relic_. Thus, our world is called _Remnant._

The world (as explored) has at least four major continents, each holding millions of square miles and perhaps even more, if the ley rifts and spirit wilds are any indication. Aside from this, the world also has myriad islands and the mysterious Great Pillar, thousands, perhaps even millions of miles high, which can be seen from any spot anytime, even from Vale, millions of miles away, if the angle is right. Various theories have been drawn about the Great Pillar and its purpose, but of course, no one really knows. I cannot really speak for the rest of Remnant, but Vytal is a continent of varied climes. Overall, I would assume, Remnant has one sun and two moons and a regular precession of comets, planets, and more gracing its skies at night, although there are undoubtedly special sights in special parts of the world: for example, only in the northern part of the continent of Vytal can we see the auroras, ghostly lights in the sky. I have heard there are even stranger things to be seen in the Faunus Wilds and Ley rifts, but again, they are but mere hearsay. And of course, as you undoubtedly know, Remnant is flat.

At this time, however, we did not know of the Darkness's true power, or of the lie that had been fed to us by those who were supposed to be our benefactors. For everything I have just told you: the Grimm, the Valyrian League, the Vytal—everything—is just a lie.


	4. MC: Jaune, Inauspicious Beginnings

"Fate may give you a leg up, my boy, but it's you that does the climbing."

- _Max "Mad" Marx, Comedian, in one of his rare serious moments._

_..._

Legends.

Stories scattered through time.

Mankind is quite fond of recounting the exploits of heroes and villains, forgetting so easily that we are but remnants, byproducts, of a forgotten past.

This is truth.

Unfortunately for me, it seemed, I was just in the right position to see myself reduced to one of those sad, forgotten byproducts of history.

I was sitting in a lap of luxury, that was sure. The waiting lounge was positively drowning with opulence, not that I had much trouble with that. In the time in which I and my fellow aspirants of Beacon awaited for the transportation that would take us on our perennial step towards the life of a Hunter and into the highest echelons of society, we had been ushered by strict, unsmiling guards after security check after security check into what could be described by fundamentalist Ceolian priests as a den of absolute sin.

There were no seats—they were too low class, it seemed. No, across the entire length of the waiting room, couches and sofas of every imaginable size and shape sprawled. To my left, an entire section of the wall had been removed and replaced with crystal viewscreens for an absolutely stunning sight of the crystal spires of Vale. At the far side of the room, tables groaned under the weight of a food bar of such quantity that before my eyes cleared, I thought an entire farm had been uprooted and implanted in the middle of Vale—and throughout all my gawking, the sound of soft classical played in the background. For a second, I instinctively looked around for an erotic statue spouting pure whisky from every orifice to complete the picture of abject luxury, but it seems that even the kind sponsors of Beacon weren't quite willing to go _that_ far.

No, all they settled for was a small room that most likely took the annual GDP of a wealthy quarter to maintain and tripled the luxury. Despite my slight reservations, however, the rest of my fellow aspirants of course took to all this with a grand gusto—most likely because unlike I, they have not experienced such luxury before. To my left, a savage looking brunette grinned and plopped herself down on the nearest couch and immediately began to snore. Similarly, a dour looking gray-headed boy to my right nevertheless managed to inject some emotion into what I at first thought was a botox-inundated face, and headed straight for the bar. All around, each and every single one of the aspirants smirked, hooted, groaned, or otherwise took an opportunity to finally indulge after years of hard training.

All in all, there were perhaps thirty teenagers in the lounge. Thirty potential Hunters and Huntresses—each one, one of the deadliest beings for their age group in perhaps the entire known world.

Some looked harmless, and some looked deadly—some were members of the much maligned Uglenda breed, and some were human—and some looked like as if they had just stepped off some sort of fashion walkway, so incredulous were their preferred articles of clothing, and some were, well, decent.

Still, thirty of tomorrow's greatest leaders and warriors—thirty of tomorrow's greatest statesmen and policymakers—about to enter what was perhaps one of the only ways to ascend to the heights of power, regardless of background or past—a way to climb into and perhaps one day even become one with the Ruling Scale. Unfortunately, well, I knew for a fact that I for sure wasn't going to be one of them, even if I was Jaune, of the name of Arc. You see—there was just too much bad, bad luck.

…

At some points in life, one really had to take a long hard think about his past, his present, and his future. For Jaune Arc, this was one of those times.

The past was simple enough. Who needed talent when you could simply bully your way into anything? For, you see, Jaune wasn't really from a poor and unprivileged family. Quite the opposite, in fact—no, Jaune had the surname of _Arc_.

There are three things in the world that cause people to drop everything and listen. One was, of course, mortal danger. The second was random gossip, and the third was the name of a family so stinking rich and famous that well, even a brain dead peasant three hundred miles from civilization could turn up their noses and say, "well, even I know who they are!"

Unfortunately for Jaune, _Arc_ was just one of those surnames. And it really didn't help that the other members of the Arc family absolutely rubbed it in everyone's faces. As a natural right for one of the First Families, for any outsider of the family to even _take_ the surname of Arc was a crime bordering on treason with a capital T. The Arcs had class and prestige, and Sol Himself damn it if they weren't proud of it!

So, quite naturally, for anyone with less than absolute perfection to be born into the Family was a direct insult against God, Man, and Public Decency. Why, then they should have the courtesy to have died at childbirth! Poor Jaune, however, had never gotten the memo and known that he was supposed to have shuffled off the mortal coil before he had even began his life.

You see, everything had been so perfect.

The astrologers had been consulted, the proper prayers chanted. Even the ancient rituals of religion that everyone except for the upper class had forgotten had been pulled out and followed to the letter, including _that_ one that called for the snorting of holy salt up the nose for every third day. The seventh son of the seventh son should have been the greatest of them all.

Except, well, he wasn't. When Jaune was born, the attending nurse had triumphantly held him up, raw and bloody, and presented him to the first ray of light that day, exposing him to the Unconquered Sun as witness to His promise to forever stand on the side of the Light and fight for honor and justice.

Instead of crying, however, as he was supposed to and eliciting Sol's pity, Jaune stayed silent—he had fainted. It was universally agreed to be a most ill-omen—and instead of stopping—well, they continued throughout his childhood. For one, when he was three and his father had first brought Jaune to have his Aura examined, he had shrieked in a most unmanly way, and well, may have just voided his bladder a little.

Charles en Magnus de Arc was not pleased. His seventh son was rapidly shaping up to be a disaster instead of a blessing.

Still, the augars never lied—and so Charles and Juliana persisted. _Something _had to go right. The Arcs never had a bad egg, and if they did—well, it didn't have to come to that. Unfortunately, the road that Jaune was taking seemed to be plowing straight towards the final solution and nothing his parents did could stop that roll.

When Jaune was four, he accidentally drowned the holy mice when he dropped their cage into the family soup. Well, new mice could be raised.

When Jaune was five, he misplaced his Ame, the lucky necklace that had been in the Arc family for over three generations. Well, it didn't really matter—people made their own luck, after all.

When Jaune was six, he tripped in the family armory and somehow triggered a chain reaction that saw seven family heirlooms destroyed and the great book of Mithridates burned to ashes.

Charles and Juliana paused, then shrugged. Well, he must have had _some_ trick up his sleeve when he avoided being killed by the falling armors. Perhaps they could still give him the benefit of doubt, after all.

So Charles handed him over to the best tutors in Vale and relentlessly drilled him. He would not have a half-wit as a son! Strict discipline would teach him to cure his ways. So, when Jaune was finally seven, Charles was confident that his son had matured. He looked stronger and more confident than ever before. Why, even his older brother Phillippe had managed to finally shape up by the time he was nine. Surely this time, Jaune could do better than him?

So when the military elite of the entire Valyrian League met at the Conclave of the First, Charles pushed his latest son up to speak.

And to make a long story short? It was a complete disaster.

Jaune had been positively frightened. The Conclave of the First was filled with some of the hardest and greatest men on perhaps the entire continent, and he was supposed to address them! Him? Small Jaune? Weak Jaune? The taunts he had received still rung in his head.

_Jaune, you fool! You'll die, and everyone'll spit on your ashes!_

And so, well, to the complete embarrassment to everyone present, he started to cry. Not a small sob either, but great wrenching gasps that went on and on and on and on.

That was the last straw. Failure in private? Fine. Bad luck, fool work, it was all-ok, as long as it was kept to the shadows. Humiliation in public, however? It was unacceptable. Charles had enough playing the loving father, and was fed up of being accused of dereliction of duty. And well, _that_ was that.

Jaune shook his head. Well, that was enough of the past, anyways. He ran his gauntleted hand through his blonde hair, and tried not to wince at the sight of a rhinoceros? Hippopotamus? He couldn't tell what exact breed or totem the faunus was, but the way he inhaled his food looked downright painful.

Where was he? Ah right, the present.

His present was a lot more nebulous—his future downright opaque.

Jaune wisely considered his situation.

One, he was heading towards Beacon Academy. He had done his research on it, of course. Top-notch education. World-renowned facilities. Well-vetted faculty. Varied career options. Guaranteed employment after graduation.

And of course, a sixty percent washout rate and huge rumor mill that, well, not everyone who went in ever came out. Oh dear.

His leg ached, and he swallowed. Still, a deal was a deal was a deal was a deal, even if it was looking less and less appealing by the second. What the hell had he gotten into?

_Shit, shit shit_, he thought. Well, what did he have?

The tingles down his arm reminded him that should worse come to worse, well, he had a little aura, for one. He at least had _that_ sorted out before he had left Livia's care for Beacon. The massive callus on the left side of his leg helpfully reminded him too that yes, well, he also had an antiquated heirloom that may or may not have been cursed by the ghost of an ancient familial nemesis for thirteen generations by his side, who by count Jaune himself was of the thirteenth generation.

Crocea Mors. Ah, the Yellow Death. Taken as a trophy after Arenius Arc, one the earliest patriarchs of the family, had fought and killed the old Vytalian general Nelnonus in single combat and mailed the head back to the dsayinan legions. It had been in the family since then for time immemorial, and for Jaune to be entrusted with it was an apparent honor that had almost led to blows between Charles and Jaune's oldest brother, Talleyrand.

Now, his whole family was firmly united against him—and all Jaune got out of it was an ancient impractical weapon outdated by generations and whose obvious ostentation made it a prime target for thieves. Honestly, he would have simply gone for the cheapest mass-produced gunblade—at least when he killed things with it, he didn't have to, you know, close into the highly fatal melee range. But nooo, tradition and everything called. Hah! Crocea Mors, the Yellow Death! It would be the death of this Yellow one, all right!

This time, Jaune did wince. It was not usually a good idea to carry around with you a weapon that was explicitly called _death_, especially Yellow Death, when your name by itself meant "yellow". It was a good way to tempt fate, and fate had been tempted all too often in his short, short life. Call him superstitious, but he wanted all the luck that he could possibly get.

A soft "bing" noise broke Jaune from his fevered reverie and alerted him to an oncoming PA announcement. Well, that was mighty nice of them. All around him, the other students put down whatever they were doing and looked around uncertainly—well, except for that faunus who was still inhaling—by god, was that an entire lamb chop? A pleasant female voice began.

"Attention, all students. A Silverfish airbase will arrive in five minutes. Please ready your belongings—and oh, please put out your trash. Have a nice day, and welcome to Beacon!"

Well, that was unexpectedly chipper. Almost surprising, really.

Still, as the silhouette of the colossal airbase began to expand in the distance, Jaune couldn't help but feel a cold chill run up his spine.

That erotic statue of pouring whisky would really be handy now.

…


	5. FN: On the Ruling Scale

Politics in my homestate of Vale are, quite surprisingly, not as deadly as they could have been. Despite the massive military presence and complete bullheaded nature of all antagonists involved (including a notoriously hardy black market that more than a few people suspect as being backed by the Septarchs) there has not been an actual civil war for decades (discounting the flirtations with dimensional destruction courtesy of the Schnee Dust Company, of course) and assassinations have been kept at a minimum (or simply have become better hidden). As a democracy by name and a kleptocratic oligarchy in truth, Vale is split into numerous power blocs, which the common citizenry would do well to simply try to avoid.

The direct descendent of the original provincial governmental apparatus back in the age when Devas Vytal still ruled, the Ruling Scale today little resembles its original foundation. Called the "Ruling Scale" to symbolize the Valyrian government's unity with the Imperial symbol of the twin-headed dragon (a scale on a dragon, understand?), the now fully autonomous government is almost entirely independent from the main capitol, though every twenty years, a single Black Chariot still solemnly rides into the Valyrian area to demand tribune for the wider Empire. In theory far removed and beyond the affairs of the locals, the Ruling Scale is now a fully integrated part of Valyrian society, for better or worse-even as the Shadow Republic, a coterminous underground government, truly rules in the underground.

As I said, the common citizen would do well to avoid the Ruling Scale. Unfortunately, I had no such luck and was born into one of the First Families, the most militant faction in Vale, also known in Superior Valyrian as the _Pater Familia_. A self-aggrandizing club of the power-hungry descendants of the original militia of the Imperial Legions of the distant past, the First Families had their fingers in anything related to war and combat, most notoriously commanding the personal loyalty of much of the Thousand Gentes, which on paper was a personal bodyguard force but in actuality was the de facto grand army of Vale, and in extension, the entire Valyrian League—thus cementing their power. I believe that the actual Valyrian Armed Forces have not seen battle for over six decades and now serve as some sort of military police. The only good that can be ascribed to that arrogant bunch was that despite their extreme prejudice and incredibly overbearing egos, they recognized talent and disdained stupidity. Thus, in the six generations of the Families, never had a fool child rose to power riding only on his bloodline—each member of the First had to prove their worth, leading to an abnormally high casualty ratio, sacrifices in the name of perfection. This mode of training their young, of course, also had the side effect of churning out a merry bunch of extreme psychopaths, which leads to popular titles such as the "First and Forsaken Bastards."

If the First Families were the extreme upper crust of society, than the Seven Lords of Trade was that slightly sticky part of the pie right beneath them. Colloquially known as the Septarchs, the seven men and women and their families each once held monopoly over a single area of the economy and were charged with the divine duty of getting rich, no matter the costs. Unlike the First Families, however, whose legitimacy is at best suspect and has thus only held their positions due to a combination of tradition, bribery, and outright brute force, the position Lord of Trade was an actual governmental seat that, like everything else in Vale, was sold to the highest bidder. Traditionally, an endlessly rotating series of clans known as the Masters of Coin have held the title of Septarch, but with the rise of the newly minted Schnee, perhaps that is set to change. Despite their legitimacy and the numerous trade laws put into place by the Divine Justices (who at least have the decency to pretend to _be_ just) however, it seems the Septarch's regularly compete in risky economic ventures on who can commit the most atrocities in the name of money, a contest it seems the newcoming (and most ironically hated) Septar Schnee have been winning with ease these years, what, with their hand in the destruction of a large portion of the Faunus Wilds and the disastrous Locust Wars.

Technically the most powerful political faction in the Valyrian League, the Kings of Vale have not held real power for over three generations. Descended from the last governor to be appointed by the once-empowered Emperor, the once great House of Hohenzellern has ruled Vale for centuries, and some of the Valyrian League's greatest heroes have come from its ranks: from the noble King Auren, who created the League to the cunning but doomed Prince Verdanem, who gave his life to break a curse that had been laid on the land. Now, however, aside from the intrigues in the royal palace and the ceremonies that still call for the royal presence, the King plays no part in the day-to-day affairs. His arguably most important role, as the mouth to the distant Emperor, has been rendered increasingly vestigial with the wane of the Imperium as a whole. The current King, King Caracala, holds little sway and is generally seen as a bumbling incompetent content to simply get drunk at high-class parties, so I shall not speak too much on him here, the King being happy enough to simply stuff his face and sleep with high class call girls. Truly, have the mighty fallen.

Then there are the Divine Justices, who are also collectively called the Supernal Iure, or "Divine Ministers." They have the noble task of ensuring none of the other powers get out of line, but in reality serve as a group of extortionists who regularly trade right for coin, a trait that has led to numerous alliances with the Septarch's against the First Families in the past. Always, the Iurans have been segregated from wider society ensure their incorruptibility and thus developed their own esoteric cultures, and if rumor is true, unique magicks, such as calling down raging lightning from the heavens or causing ash to appear in the mouths of those who lie. Before, in the older days, the House of Bells, the college required for admittance into the ranks of the Divine Justices, was famously regarded as the fairest and most pure institution in the entire League. Sadly, those times have passed and the corrupted system yields corrupted fruit. With their own personal force of soldiers and their formidable powers, the Divine Justices would be a force to be reckoned with if they did not simply fold at the slightest sign of a bribe.

The people who actually (in theory, anyways) do something are found in the Council of the Thousand. Supposedly, they act in the name of the public good, debating and passing legislation. In reality, they are but a council of bigots busy passing morality laws instead of actually heading out to see the world they supposedly govern. Divided in two chambers, the House of the High, and the House of the Esteemed, the Higher House has traditionally abstained from every vote except for times of emergency, when one of the Councilors from the Higher House would be elected as a general to lead the forces of Vale. After the supplantation of the Valian military by the private army of the First, however, the Higher House has degenerated into a rich social club for ignorant old men. Nowadays, only the Lower House really does any legislating, even if most of the laws passed are ineffectual at best, and counter intuitive at worst. At the very least, a large portion of the Council is famously incorruptible, especially under the charismatic influence of the admittedly honorable (if slightly twisted) Ynestius Hewnyas; unfortunately, it is stems from the fact that those same councilors are too stupid to notice an actual bribe even if it was being dangled in front of their faces, rather than any ingrained sense of justice on their behalf, as their logicless bullheaded conservatism and baseless ethnic discrimination against everyone except traditional Vytalian rule had brought Vale virtually to the edge of collapse and civil war.

Then there is the shadowy network of the Hands of the Endless. Of course, I would have to purport to know little about them, their methods, their goals, and their funding. Publicly, of course, their operations are open to all to see. With their main headquarters located just beside the Councilor buildings, anyone who is a tax-paying citizen of a certain socioeconomic bracket is welcome to come in and enter a tour to see how the government works. In reality? Their eyes are everywhere, and their knives are sharp.

And, perhaps most infamous of them all would be the Xartupotis, the official state church of Vale. Dedicated to promoting the worship of the traditional Celestial (to use the more common Valyrian term) deities such as the three moons and the seven comets or Cwonas, the patron Goddess of the lands of Vale, the Xartupotisian religion has been worn away by war and famine, blasphemy and apostasy into the sorry state it is today. Still nominally the official cult of the church (as the Temple of the Dzos Pyieter is still the only place the Black Chariots of Vytal, the glorified tax-collectors of the Emperor, stops), it has nevertheless been rendered obsolete first by the knock-off religion of the Celesta Magna, then completely supplanted by the widely more popular (and Valyrianized!) Confederation of Light, which itself is riven with schism after the introduction of the new Excelsian Creed.

This would be the vast majority of the Ruling Scale, a stratified good-for-nothing upper section of society that has lingered on like a leaky appendix from the ancient times. Long antiquated and virtually obsolete, they should have long ago given away to the Shadow Republic, but as they say, well, those who have power, tend to cling to it harder than a miser to his coin. Still, despite the amazingly corrupt upper bureaucracy, life in Vale is surprisingly good. Decent incomes, representation, at least _some_ upward movement in society and, of course, security, have made the city-state a prime target of immigrants for much of its history, providing a skilled labor force that further increases Vale's prosperity that thus further promotes immigration.

And speaking of the immigrants—for the first time in Valyrian history, the members of the of the much maligned Uglenda people, colloquially known as the Flora and the Fauna, have been finally been granted the right of full citizen status after over forty years of literally being treated as subhuman. This surprise vote passed finally with a direct intervention from the Higher House, the first time in almost twenty years. Despite some leftover resentment on both sides (especially from the part of the "earthroots" White Fang organization and the amazingly racist Council), after the dying down of the _Wars of the Damned_, the Shadow Republic had already unofficially granted equal protection for those few Uglenda who switched sides to the League and fought against their own, granting the League incredible inside knowledge into the tactics and mystical tribal powers of their race. Now almost fully integrated into the middle classes, these most dynamic of newcomers stand at a turning point in history.

And, of course, there is the populist Populist party in the Council, whose most prominent head is Ozpin, also known as the Headmaster of Beacon…


End file.
